Aftermath
by Trust Gavroche
Summary: "Noise does not rouse a drunken man; silence awakens him." It is only a little while after the revolution fails that Grantaire wakes up, alone -but alive- in the Musain. One can only guess what he sees. And where's Apollo? [Hopefully not what you think. Angsty. Will be a complete story.]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi all! I've been craving anything even remotely E/R recently, and so I wrote this, even though I really should be trying to catch up with NaNoWriMo. Anyways, I had originally planned to draw this out a bit more, but once I wrote that last sentence, I thought "Hey, that's a nice place to end it." So I stopped there, but I'm more than willing to publish the second chapter as well if enough people show interest. This is completely unedited- I've been considering the idea for a few hours and decided to have a go. Movie!Verse. Enjoy. :3**

**-Vroche**

* * *

It was not the noise of the revolution that woke Grantaire up so much as the complete silence. It echoed throughout the walls of the cafe, almost tangible, making its prescence known mutely.

It was the loudest silence he had ever heard. After blinking open weary eye, the world shifted for a moment and then settled back into place. The edges of his vision were still dim and blurry, but he could see.

And, oh, he wished he was still out cold, draped over the table in a lifeless position, blind to the world arouns him. For what he saw startled and horrified him in a way that his constant nightmares never could.

The first face he recognized was Joly's. The former hypochondriac's thick brown hair was plastered across his face with sweat. His eyes were open in a horror and pain that words could not describe, and his mouth was open in a silenced scream. Grantaire stopped looking so he wouldn't see the fatal wounds that had cost Joly his life. There was a reason why he didn't study medicine.

Hands shaking, still not fully aware of the fact that Joly was dead, Grantaire reached downwards and used two fingers to carefully shut Joly's eyes. "Rest in peace, mon ami," he muttered hoarsely.

There were only a few bodies in the cafe, maybe ten at the most, but Joly was the only one who's face Grantaire recognized. They must have been citizens taking cover in the cafe. The barkeeper was probably lying around here somewhere, but Grantaire was rather fond of her as well, and so he didn't go in to too much trouble to find her.

His next thought was Apollo. The man he admired and the leader of the revolution, of course he had to be alive, at the very least! Surely Enjolras would use his strength and brain to find a way out of the mess which he had created. He had to!

Gingerly stepping over and around shards of crystal-like glass, pausing to catch his breath and steady himself every once in a while, Grantaire headed for the door of the Musain. The sun was high in the sky and shone down through the mostly shattered, tarnished windows ("Why clean 'em when they'll just get dirtier?"). It would have been any other normal day, and Grantaire's alcohol-fuddled brain almost accepted this fact.

Then he stepped outside.

The barricade, which Grantaire remembered helping with the construction of, was still there. Oh, it was still there all right, but it was what lay cluttered around it that stuck Grantaire like a knife. No, not a knife- a club.

Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre lay near the west end of the barricade, closest to the cafe. Grantaire assumed that was the part they had been defending, but he had not been versed in barricade-fighting techniques as the others had. Combeferre had three bayonets piercing through his abdomen, the blood still slowly staining his gray vest and white undershirt. Prouvaire's slight frame was mostly hidden underneath a piece of furniture, but it was clear he wouldn't wake again.

Feuilly and Courfeyrac had apparently been on the east end of the barricade. The orphan's bright red locks stood out against the mostly brown, drab color of the barricade, and Courfeyrac's black curls gently swayed in the breeze. Both had seemingly been shot in the chest.

Lesgle and Bahorel were lying near the apex of the barricade. Bahorel had a huge scrape across his calf, as well as a gruesome gunshot wound on his forehead. Lesgle had been shot in the stomach.

It was the same fate of the Thenardier girl, whose name Grantaire could not recall. She had shown obvious attraction to Marius, but as usual, the Bonapartist was blind. Speaking of Pontmercy, he did not spot him amongst the fallen, and vaugely wondered where he could be.

It was little Gavroche's form who brought tears to Grantaire's bloodshot green eyes. He had been such a brave, fiesty, annoying little bastard whom everyone loved. He was like a little brother. He was dead. From the way he was positioned, leaning against the barricade with pouches of what seemed to be ammunition in his hand, it was clear that Gavroche had just been trying to help when he was murdered by the cursed National Guard.

Grantaire slowly made his way over to each of his friends in turn, whispering a silent "goodbye" to them all. He was no stranger to the cruel hands of death- his mother, brother, and little sister had all ben victims, but these men he had felt close to. These men he had spent the last four years with. These men had been his friends, had accepted him -for the most part- for who he was.

That over with, Grantaire, slowly made his way around the barricade, searching between tables and chairs and beds and pianos and benches, looking for the man in the red jacket. Oblivious to the danger that the National Guard still posed, he ambled around for a little while, looking for his leader.

It occured to him that Enjolras, although he loved the barricade, might not have died on it. If he did die, Grantaire reminded himself, not when.

He managed to get through the first floor without excessively staring at the bodies or cutting his filthy bare feet on the glass too much.

The second floor of the Musain revealed nothing about the previous battle, except for a few blood spots and an empty rifle thrown into a corner. Now mildly suspicious, Grantaire continued up the stairs slowly.

If what they had said in books was true, if you really could feel grief like a knife stabbing in the heart, then at that moment Grantaire had absolutely no doubt that it was true.

Enjolras, his Apollo, the only person he truly cared about in the world, lay under the windowsill. Grantaire clutched the handrail so tightly his knuckled turned a ghastly shade of white, and he forgot to breathe for a moment. He stayed rooted to the top stair, with only one thought coursing through his brain like a river during a flood: Enjolras was dead.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be! Enjolras was invincible, he was a god, nothing could harm him. The man whom so many looked up to was gone forever and Grantaire could not believe it.

He didn't remember crossing the creaking wooden floors, but somehow he ended up at Enjolras's pale body. With dry, cracked hands, Grantaire made an inventory of his Apollo's wounds. Half his right leg was scraped off, leaving a huge, bleeding raw mark, and various cuts and bruises accented his pale skin. They matched the color of his red jacket.

That wasn't all, though. A bullet had pierced Enjolras's stomach area, although it had come close to missing him and was located on his far left side. It didn't look like it had gone through anything too vital, but then again, Grantaire wasn't a doctor.

No sooner had Grantaire finished this thought, he noticed Enjolras's chest. It was free of injury, save for the blood that stained his undershirt (and was probably from another wound or from carrying someone to safety, knowing Enjolras). Not only this, but it was rising. And falling. And rising. And falling. It was the slightest of motions, akin to a butterfly's gentle and subtle wings, but steady.

"Apollo," Grantaire gasped. His throat felt raw from the alcohol and from yelling yesterday, but he pushed the discomfort inside. Enjolras was alive, and that was all that mattered.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/M: First off, thanks soo much for all the lovely reviews! I've tried to reply to them all, but life's been busy and all. Anyway, I fixed a few grammar and spelling mistakes in chapter one. I've also decided to make this into a full-blown story. I have a few ideas, but suggestions are always welcome. Warning: may get a little graphic towards the end of the chapter...I dunno, just being on the safe side. I will warn you that the writing starts out decent and then gets worse throughout the chapter...or maybe that's just my opinion. Please enjoy!**

**-Vroche**

* * *

It had been hours since Grantaire had found Enjolras. Hours since his world had been both ripped apart and reborn at the same time. Hours since either of the young men had moved.

Enjolras was more or less in the same position as he had been when Grantaire had found him. Grantaire wanted to possible move his Apollo into a more comfortable position, or something along those lines, but he didn't, for fear of harming the blonde futher.

What he had done was used his scarf to tie around Enjolras's stomach area where his major wound was. It wasn't loose, but it wasn't as firm as it probably should be, either, but Grantaire didn't dare try again.

Enjolras's condition had not changed in the past hours. His breathing had gotten slightly shallower, something that worried Grantaire immesely. There was still no sign of movement from under Enjolras's pale lids, and both revolutionaries had dark circles under their eyes. Grantaire's were from insomnia and alcohol, whereas Enjolras's were from all the late nights he had spent planning the revolution.

"The revolution," Grantaire scoffed out loud. Such a petty thing. They had been what, seven young men and a boy against the rulers of France. What were they hoping to achieve? Fame? A change in the government? Such riots in the streets rarely, if ever, achieved anything notable.

Grantaire was leaned against the wall, his chin resting on his knees, which were pulled up to his chest. He was mainly wanting to be next to Enjolras, as if to give him comfort, but also fighting the hangover he'd recieved after so much absinthe the previous night. He wrapped his arms tight around himself, torn in a sluggish mental battle- to go find help or stay with Apollo?

To stay would welcome the inevitable, for surely Enjolras wouldn't just get better on his own. He had already lost a lot of blood, or so it seemed to Grantaire, and that certainly couldn't be good.

To leave Enjolras and search for help would leave him in danger of another kind. There was little doubt in Grantaire's keen mind that the National Guard was still looking for any of the "insurgents" that had survived the barricade. They would face death at firing range or the guillotine- he wasn't really sure.

The minutes flew by like a summer breeze- warm, but mind-numbingly slow. The seconds ticked by like molasses, and every moment Enjolras's condition seemed to worsen considerably. And every moment Grantaire weighed the pros and cons of finding help for Enjolras.

Finally, Grantaire's internal conflict was won. There was absolutely no way he was going to just sit here pathetically and watch his Apollo slowly waste away into a pale, empty blood-stained shell of his former lively self.

He rose, still a little bit unsteady, to his feet and made his way back to the staircase. Once he reached the top, Grantaire clutched the handrail and cast a final look at Enjolras before stepping down the first stair, which creaked a little under his weight.

Maybe it was just coincidence, but that slight creak was enough to cause Enjolras's eyes to flutter open.

Grantaire, with his back turned to Enjolras, saw and heard nothing and continued on his way to find help for his Apollo.

Enjolras's eyes blinked open blearily. Squinting, he attempted to sit up, got about an inch, and then grunted from the pain, falling back down to his former lying position.

His thoughts dampened by pain, he wondered where he was and what had happened. The last thing he remembered was running by a passed-out Grantaire up the Musain stairs. Courfeyrac? Combeferre? The names came flooding back in an overwhelming rush. Feuilly, Joly, Lesgle, Prouvaire, Bahorel, Gavroche? Marius? Where were they?

It took him another second to remember the revolution. _His_ revolution. The barricade. _His_ barricade. _His_ friends. They had either sucsessfully fended off the National Guard or were...well, he didn't want to consider that possibility yet.

Breathing was hard, with every breath a sharp stab of pain to his midsection. His heart was hammering, as if it was working hard to keep him alive.

Scanning the room from his position on the floor, Enjolras could make out a a wine bottle next to his head out of the corner of his eye. A wine bottle...up here? He didn't drink.

If he listened closely, Enjolras could hear a very slight thumping near the stairs. He also could have sworn he spotted a flash of black curls, but it could just be a hallucination.

Even with his thoughts dimmed, Enjolras could put together the evidence, however little it was. Grantaire.

Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could as a fresh wave of pain washed over his body, making his muscles convulse. The pain cleared after what seemed like ages but was probably only a minute or two, and Enjolras struggled to finish his line of thought.

If it was Grantaire who had left the wine bottle by him, and he hadn't mistaken the flash of curls heading down the stairs, then where was he going? Enjolras frowned microscopically at the faint thought. Couldn't Grantaire have helped him?

Grantaire couldn't be far by now, surely he was still in the Musain. "Gr-gra-taire," he stammered weakly. A few moments went by with no reply.

Enjolras decided to take matters into his own hands. Biting his lip against the pain, he used his arms and stomach to sit up.

That was a mistake. Almost immediately, the scarf wrapped around his stomach (how did it get there?) was stained with a darker, wetter liquid than it was before. Unable to stand the pain, Enjolras's teeth cut his lip. His vision grew dark and fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing he heard was a shout of "Apollo!" at the same time his head hit the wooden floor and everything went black once more.


End file.
